Ladies in Emerald
by Not So Original Am I
Summary: Minerva McGonagall and her sister, Hermione, engage in a subtle war for the affections of a man half their age, a handsome Polish man named Harold Potter.
1. I

**Ladies in Emerald**

**Part I**

As soon as the sun rose out of the sea, its light streamed through the dark red curtains of the whitest and most spotless room ever imaginable, it shone upon two little beds, each covered in matching red covers, separated only by a small width of space; on clothing that sat neatly folded on dark wooden chairs that sat by the side of each bed; on the one picture that hung above the mantel piece of the white wall; and on the placid faces of the sleepers.

It awakened Miss Hermione Granger, who sat up straight in her bed and greeted it with a bright smile. "Oh Minerva, the suns up."

Miss McGonagall awoke and smiled too, just not as widely. "The first glimpse of it for a week." Said Miss McGonagall.

"Isn't it strange," said Miss Hermione, "That when we went to sleep the storm was still raging?"

"And now – the sea has not gone down yet. Listen."

"The tide's coming in. Let's go out and look at it." Cried Miss Hermione, delicately getting out of bed.

"You are impulsive, Hermione." Said Miss McGonagall.

She was forty-eight, and three years older than her sister. She could, therefore, smile indulgently at the eagerness of youth. But she rose and dressed in a loose, dark green dressing gown and walked out of the silent house behind her sister.

They had lived there for many years, tucked away on the top of a projecting cliff on the Cornish coast, half way between the light blue sky and the dark blue sea, like two witches, hidden in an enchanted bit of the world who had grown grey waiting for angry villagers who never came. Theirs was the only house on the wind swept height. Below them in the bay on the right, a tiny fishing village of Trevannic; below, down to the left lay a sandy little cove, only accessible by a narrow gorge that split the majestic stretch of cliffs. To that stone weather-beaten house their father had bought while they were young, after having retired from the army with o pension and a grievance and there. After his death, they had continued to lead their remote and gentle lives.

The salt-laden wind buffeted them, brushing strands of hair across their faces and swirled their night gowns around them as they leaned over the stout stone parapet their farther had built along the edge of the cliff, and drank in the beauty of the calm morning. Miss Hermione pointed to the gilt-edged clouds and likened them to angel's thrones. Miss McGonagall derived a suggestion of Pentecostal flames from the golden flashes of sea-gulls wings, then she referred to the appetite they would have for breakfast. To this last observation Miss Hermione did not reply, as she was leaning over the parapet intent on something in the cove below. Presently she clutched her sister's arm in a white knuckled grip.

"Minerva, look down there – that black thing – what is it?"

Miss McGonagall's gaze followed the pointing finger. At the foot of the rocks that edged the gorge sprawled a thing checked black and white.

"I do believe it is a man!"

"A drowned man! Oh, Minerva, how dreadful!"

She turned brown compassionate eyes on her sister, who continued to peer keenly at the helpless figure below.

"Do you think he's dead, Minerva?"

"The sensible thing would be to go down and see," replied Miss McGonagall.

Of course it wasn't the first man to be cast up by the waves that they had stumbled upon during walks, where wrecks and loss of life at sea were commonplace happenings. They were dealing with the sadly familiar; and though their hearts throbbed as they made their way down the gorge and sped down the rocky path, they set about their task.

Miss Hermione reached the sand first and walked as calmly as she could to the body which lay on a low shelf of rock, only to turn to face her sister with a happy cry.

"Minerva. He's alive. Come quickly." And as her sister rushed to her side, Miss Hermione continued in a quieter tone. "Have you ever seen such a beautiful face in your life?"

As Miss McGonagall bent over the unconscious form to check for signs of life herself, a foolish moisture gathered in her dark green eyes that had no business being there. For indeed there lay, sprawled out with a cat like grace was the most romantic figure of youth they had ever seen. He had long black hair, perfectly chiselled face, a feminine mouth and the most delicate, long fingered hands in the world. Miss Hermione murmured that he looked like a Greek god. Miss McGonagall sighed. The man was ridiculous. He was also soaked and moaned as if he were in pain. But as gazing in wonder and admiration at the young man was doing no good for him when he was half-drowned, Miss McGonagall sent her sister in search for help.

"The tide is still low enough for you to get around the points. See if you can find Weasley and Ronald. Get them to bring a stretcher. And ask Mrs Weasley, for some brandy."

Miss McGonagall did not allow the sentimental to weaken the practical. Miss Hermione, though she would have preferred to stay by the side of the beautiful youth, relented and went forthwith on her errand.

"And send Seamus Finnegan on his bike to find Dr. Pomfrey."

Miss McGonagall, left alone with him, rolled up her green robe and pillowed his head on it, brought his limbs into an attitude of comfort. Once done, she sat on the rocks nearby and wondered who on earth he could be and where in the world he came from. His clothes consisted of a pair of black trousers and a white shirt with a collar, and he was bare feet. Miss McGonagall glanced at his feet. The sole were soft and pink like the palms of his hands. Now had he been the coarsest and most callosity-stricken shell-back half-alive, Minerva McGonagall would have tended him with the same devotion; but the lingering though unoffending Eve in her rejoiced that hands and feet betokened gentler work than that of a sailor or fisherman. And why? Heaven knows, save that the stranded creature had a pretty face and that his black hair was flung over his forehead in the most interesting manner. She wished he would open his eyes. But as he kept them shut and gave no sign of returning to consciousness, she sat there waiting patiently.

At last Miss Hermione appeared around the corner of the head land, followed by Arthur Weasley and his son Ronald carrying a stretcher.

"What you got there, Miss's?"

"I would have thought that it was rather obvious Mr Weasley."

While Miss McGonagall administered the brandy without any obvious result, the men looked at the cast away, scratched their heads, and guessed him to be a foreigner; but how he managed to be there alone with no wreckage to supply and clues surpassed their powers of imagination. In lifting him on to the stretcher, the right ankle was uncovered and shown to black and swollen. Old Arthur examined it carefully.

"Broken." He said.

"Oh, poor lad, that's why he's moaning so." Cried Miss Hermione.

The men grasped the handles of the stretcher.

"I'd better take him home to my old woman." Said Arthur Weasley thoughtfully.

"He can have my bed, father." Said Ronald.

Miss McGonagall looked at Miss Hermione and Miss Hermione looked at Miss McGonagall, and the eyes of each lady were wistful. Then Miss McGonagall spoke.

"You can carry him up to the house, Weasley. We have a comfortable spare room and Pomona will help us look after him."

The men obeyed, for in Trevannic Miss McGonagall's word was law.


	2. II

**Part II**

It was early afternoon. Miss McGonagall had retired to take her customary after lunch sleep. Miss Hermione, therefore, kept watch in the sick chamber, just such a little spotless room like their own, except with blue trimming, and only one little bed in which the youth lay dry and warm and comfortably asleep. He was exhausted from cold and exposure, said the doctor who had driven in from Hogsmeade, eight miles away, and that his ankle was indeed broken. She had done what was necessary, had swathed him in one of Pomona's flannel nightgowns, and had departed. Miss Hermione had the patient all to herself. A bright fire burned in the grate, and the strong Atlantic wind came in through the open window where she sat, her knitting in her hand. Every now and then she glanced over at the sleeping youth, longing, in the most feminine manner, for him to awake and render an account of himself. Miss Hermione's heart fluttered mildly. For beautiful youths, baffling curiosity, are not washed up alive by the sea at an old maids feet every day. She glanced at him again, and wondered whether he had a mother. She imagined her to be tall, slender with long dark red hair and clear blue eyes. Presently Pomona came in, stout and matronly, and cast a maternal eye on the boy and smoothed his pillow. She had son's herself and two of them had been claimed by the pitiless sea.

"It's lucky I had a sensible nightgown to give him." She remarked. "If we had had only the flimsy things that you and Miss Minerva wear…"

"Sh!" said Miss Hermione, colouring faintly. "He might hear you."

Pomona laughed and left. Miss Hermione's needles clicked rapidly. When she glanced at the bed again she became conscious of the two bright green eyes regarding. She rose quickly and went to the bed.

"Don't be afraid," she said. "Don't be afraid, you're among friends."

He murmured words which she did not catch.

"What did you say?" She asked sweetly.

He repeated them in a stronger voice. Then she realised that he spoke in a foreign language. Dismay filled her.

"Don't you speak English?"

He looked at her for a moment, puzzled. Then the echo of the last word seemed to reach his intelligence. He shook his head. A memory rose from her school girl days.

"Parlez-vous français?" she faltered; and when he shook his head again, she almost felt relieved. Then he began to talk, regarding her earnestly, as if seeking by his mere intentness to make her understand. But it was a strange language which she had not heard before.

In one mighty effort, Miss Hermione gathered together her whole stock of German.

"Sprechen Sie deutsch?"

"Ach ja! Einige worte," he replied, and his face lit up in a smile so radiant that Miss Hermione wondered how Providence could have neglected to inspire a being so beautiful with the knowledge of the English language. "Ich kann mich auf deutsch verständlich machen, aber ich bin polnisch." _(__I can make myself understood German, but I'm Polish.)_

But not a word of the halting sentence could Miss Hermione make out, even the last was swallowed up in guttural unintelligibility. She only recognized the speech as German and different from that which he used at first, which seemed to be his native language.

"Oh dear, I must give up." She sighed.

The patient moved slightly and uttered a sudden cry of pain. It occurred to Miss Hermione that had not had time to realize the fractured ankle.

That he realised it now was obvious, for he lay back with closed eyes and white lips until the spasm passed. Miss Hermione did her best to explain what had happened. She made a gesture of swimming, then laid her cheek on her hand and simulated fainting, acted out her discovery of his body on the beach, broke a wooden match in two and pointed to his ankle, exhibited to medicine bottles by the bedside, smoothed his pillow and smiled so as to assure him of kind treatment. He understood more or less, murmured thanks in his own language, took her hand, and to her astonishment, pressed it to his lips. Miss McGonagall, entering softly, found the pair in this romantic situation.

When it dawned on him a while later that he owed his deliverance equally to both of the gentle ladies, he kissed Miss Minerva's hand too. Whereupon Miss Hermione coloured and turned away. She did not like to see him kiss her sister's hand. Why, she could not tell but she felt as if she had received a tiny stab in the heart.


	3. III

**Part III**

Providence has showered many blessings on Trevannic, but among them is not the gift of tongues. Dr. Prompfray who came over every day from Hogsmease knew less German than the ladies. It was impossible to communicate with the boy except by signs. Old Arthur Weasley, who had served in the navy, felt confident that he could make him understand and tried pidgin-English. But the youth only smiled sweetly and shook hands with him, whereupon old Aurthur scratched his head and acknowledged himself jiggered. To Miss Hermione, at last, came imspiration that _'Polnisch_' meant Polish and as much to her siser, Miss Minerva.

Miss McGonagall didn't react well to the news and called her younger sister hopeless as she marched up the stairs, carrying the old Otto's German grammar book she had borrowed from the school near Hogsmeade.

Upon entering the room, Miss McGonagall smiled at the young man, while her sister asked if he was hungry by miming.

"Oh Hermione, stop it. You look like a canaball." Miss McGonagall said before looking at the youth, "Sie kommen aus Poland?"

"Aus Polen, ja!" Laughed the boy.

Miss Hermione smiled triumphantly at her sister, "See! I told you!"

Ignoring the smug look, Miss Minerva leabed closer to the patient, "Wie ist Ihr Name?"

"Potter. Harold."

"Harold Potter?" Miss McGonagall asked.

"Ja."

"Ich, Miss Minerva." She tapped herself on the chest before pointing to her sister, "Und das ist meine Schwester."

"Hermione."

"Hermione."

From there, Miss McGonagall put to him such question as: "Have you a mother?" and "How old are you?" She scceded in finding out that was alone in the world, save for an old aunt who lived in Surrey, and that he was twenty years old.

Miss Hermione took it upon herself to teach him english. When she boasted that she had taught him the names of the objects in the spare room, all her sister said was, "He may be learning Hermione, but you are making holes in the furniture."

At breakfast the next morning, Miss McGonagall sat at the head of the breakfast table. "When he gets up, he must have some clothes."

Miss Hermione agreed; but did not say that she was knitting him socks in secret. Harolds interest in the progress of the garments was one of her chief delights.

"There's a trunk upstairs with fathers things," Miss McGonagall said with more diffidence than usual, "They are so sacred to us that I was wondering-"

"Our dear father would be the first to wish it." Said Miss Hermione.

"It's our Christian's duty to clothe the naked." Said Miss McGonagall.

"And so we must clothe him in what we've got." Miss Hermione said, then with a slight flush, she added, "It's so many years since our great loss that I've almost forgotten what a man wears."

"I haven't," Said Miss McGonagall, "I think I ought to tell you, Hermione," She continued, after pausing to put sugar and milk into the cup of tea she handed to her sister, "I think I ought to tell you that I have decided to use some of the money Aunt Elisabeth left me to by him an outfit. Our dear fathers things can only be makeshift – and the poor boy hasn't a penny in the pockets he ashore in."

"Is that quite fair dear?" Miss Hermione said impulsively.

"Fair? Do you mind explaining?"

Miss Hermione regretted her impetuosity, "Don't you think, dear Minerva," She said with some nervousness, "That it would lay him under too great an obligation to you personally? I should prefer to take the money out of our joint account. We both are responsible for and," She added with a timid smile, "I found him first."

"Don't be rediculous!" Miss McGonagall retorted with a wuite unusual touch of accidity, "Very well, we'll use the joint account."

"You're not angry with me, Minerva?"

"I am not angry with you Hermione!" Miss Minerva replied freezingly, "I'm just going to get the washing." She said and left the room in pursuit of her housekeeping duties, while Miss Hermione shed a few tears on the way to the sick room.

Before lunch time, they kissed with mutual apologies; but the spirit of rivalry was by no means quenched.


End file.
